So on occasions prior to this writing, I have spoken of the world of difference between being autistic, and having skin cancer or diabetes. Or both, if you happen to be in the situation I am in. Maybe the higher spirits of Queensland were watching me when I posted that, because yesterday morning, I got a very unpleasant surprise concerning the skin cancer that is in my face.

No, I have not been diagnosed with anything, or told that my prognosis is any better or worse than last time. Instead, this surprise is more a confirmation of my other position concerning my present lot in life. Namely, “boy Queenslanders are a fukking incompetent bunch who should be sent back to England, who will promptly ship them off somewhere where they cannot harm anyone”.

That morning, I was woken by the sound of my incredibly annoying VOIP phone ringing. Now, this being 0745 hours, I was very tempted to just ignore it. But then a second impulse came over me. I wanted to pick up the ‘phone, and say to the person on the other end, “excuse me, idiot normie Queenslander, but not everybody likes the sun and wants to wake up to greet its first rays”. Obeying that impulse, I picked up the ‘phone, turned it on, and asked the idiot at the other end what they wanted.

Now, this is where the fun begins, and requires some explanation. The asshole on the other end of the line basically told me that they needed to cancel my appointment with the skin cancer specialist this Friday (very bad). Then then asked me, as if I just have three Lamborghinis just sitting in a basement I can access with an elevator, if I can come in today. Umm, no dear, I had to make very complicated and time-consuming to other persons arrangements to get there at the time that you specified for me. Maybe this is just the way that Queenslanders do things, I do not know. But when I make a time to see someone about a matter that could be life or death for them, entails visible surgical mutilation for them, and I give them no ability to make a time that is more to their ability to work into their life, I keep that appointment. Because I have a sense of honour, of propriety, of decency. Qualities that you, Royal Brisbane And Women’s Hospital, have so far displayed none of to me.

Oh yeah, I forgot to mention that this is not an isolated example. I have been booked into multiple appointments with the Thoracic medicine department. Every time, when I was able to secure transport and arrange to get there at the unreasonable and frankly distressing times that were made for rather than by me, a call at the last possible moment with the wording “sorry, we cannot see you at this time” came. I eventually gave up and said look, I do not want to play this game anymore. Send my case back to the referring GP and quit wasting my fukking time. Unfortunately, where skin cancer, and the second skin cancer of a thirty-odd year life, in almost exactly the same place as the previous one, are concerned, this is not an option. Ever since I was told “we probably need to cut out your parotid gland, and it might result in permanent facial droop”, I have been experiencing steadily worsening problems with my sleep pattern.

A point that needs to be made very clear about all of this is that I have (somewhat surrepetitiously) read communications between the GP that referred me to the local hospital and that hospital. I forget the exact wording, but the statement that the fine-needle aspiration done on the site has “not ruled out malignancy” is in there somewhere. Can you imagine how terrifying that must feel to a person who has been made to live as an nth-class citizen for most of his life, and is now experiencing major difficulties with breathing and changes in his sleep pattern that have no explanation? Words like “metastasis” or “metastasised” keep coming to mind with an alarming frequency. As in I will finally eventually get seen by a specialist and they will say “oh, sorry, this metastasised just after the last appointment we did not keep, so sorry about that haha”. And they seriously wonder why I refer to them as Cuntslanders.

Calls have also been made to make damned sure that I am not merely unhappy with this situation. That it is causing me distress to a degree that, if the law recognised the rights of the autistic to the degree that it should, would be considered inhumane. I cannot stress this enough. At best, I am going to get away with face mutilation. At worst, I could already be asking how long I have left. Either way, the only person I know who would take issue when I say, in much the same manner a military officer would use, that this situation is not acceptable, happens to be my worthless male parental unit. But it gets even better. One person I spoke to about how much this puts me out and makes a problem for me began to tell me, like she was speaking to a four year old, that other people come to their clinic from much further away than I or the person I have had to put out for transport do. So fukking what, Cuntslander? If I were in New South Wales, specifically the Westmead area, I would have already been looked at at least once and scheduled for surgery to remove the damned thing already. Because you know something, Cuntslander? (Yes, I am being redundant by asking a Cuntslander if they know something, eat me.) In New South Wales, they consider the minimisation of harm from any form of cancer, which means prompt treatment, to be a big priority. Because lost productivity and death as a result of belated cancer treatment costs governments around the world many, many millions of dollars every year. But apparently Cuntslanders are better than all of us, and think they can do things their own way, even when it clearly does not work.

Not that I am exactly impressed with people in New South Wales or Victoria. I have to qualify this whole thing by saying that in my experiences of the mental health services in New South Wales and the idiots who call themselves diabetes care services in Victoria, incompetence and arrogance are an Arsehola-wide thing.

I will not get into all the examples of incompetence from New South Wales mental health idiots. Except to say that when you go to psychologists and psychiatrists as frequency as I did, in one case needing to tattoo “I am autistic” into your forehead to get any more obvious, and yet still not get accurately diagnosed before two interstate moves and your twenty-sixth birthday, it does not raise your opinion of the society you live in at all. And when people talk at you as if you are a spoiled child, move the goalposts, and call you “Dean the diabetic” in front of you, you want to make it “Dean the punching my head until he hears cracking sounds”, just to teach them the value of being polite.

But that was then, this is now. The medical profession in this country has taken black eyes of confidence like this so many times in the intervening years that for something as routine in this country as skin cancer to meet with this level of incompetence and apparent who-cares-ness is not merely unacceptable. It indicates a level of uncaring that defies description.

What makes this all the more insulting is that the amount of effort I have expended on going and calling for help in establishing better independence so that I might be able to pick and choose where I live to a greater degree have met with barriering and blocking. In fact, the first such effort in this that took place in Cuntsland eventuated in my being diagnosed as autistic in the first place. As in “you have autism, go away, we want you to go crawl in a hole and die”. Because if I could afford to own and drive a car, I would not be sitting in Cuntsland typing this right now. I would be driving down to New South Wales, and I would not be stopping in the sense of going to get sleep until I was in Sydney. And after the fukking incompetence in everything I have dealt with Cuntslanders for in terms of need rather than want, I would kiss the soil of Sydney like it was a son I had not seen in twenty years, and had been led to believe was dead. Because there is nothing left for me in terms of feeling with Cuntsland. Nothing but hate.

I wish I knew how to set up any sort of tip jar on this journal. Really, I do. Not because I expect a flood of tips or any kind of acknowledgement other than others on the spectrum taking up the chant of “refuse! resist!”, but rather because I am that desperate for the funds to get out of a place I consider to be a step below hell. To paraphrase Arthur Dent (Simon Jones), I used to lie awake at night, screaming. I dreamed that all the insufferable peers I had at school went to heaven or hell, and I was sent to Cuntsland.

I had dreams when I was a boy. Just like any other boy. They changed a bit as I slowly changed into a bigger boy and eventually a man, but they never included things like this. However, during my boyhood, my family often went on holiday trips to places in Cuntsland. Brisbane, specifically the area that is called Nundah, was one such place. If you want a clue concerning how Brisbane and all of this country has changed for the worst, consider that in 1988, Nundah was basically the back of nowhere, whereas now people with median incomes are expected to pay the lion’s share of their income to live there. The other, I will not even mention by name except to say that I would rather kill every living thing in Australia than ever be forced to live there again. But even on visits to Nundah, I was frequently struck with the psychological-physical sensation I refer to in one story background text as “shitskin”. Shitskin is one of Kronisk’s nastier powers, in which he basically transfers the same sensation he felt in some situations within Nundah to the person who displeases him sufficiently. As the name implies, the person in question feels as if worms of fecal matter are crawling through their skin, and growing as they do. Essentially, it is the polar opposite of what Kronisk feels during sex with someone like Corrigwen. But aside from the manner in which the victim claws chunks of his own skin off in an effort to make it stop, shitskin is very much fact-based.

Now, when you add all of this to the fact that during a visit to my sister’s home in Adelaide, I was taken aback by the sound of my asshole normalist male parental unit proclaiming to a bunch of people who were also visiting (it was during MoneyMas) that he would not want to live “there” (Sydney), well, it is like this. I do want to live there, male parental entity. After this incident, I want to live there so bad that if peeling every millimetre of skin from your body and covering you with salt would get me one inch closer to Sydney, I would do it without a second thought. I hope and “pray” to Odin that you soon get diagnosed with leukemia, and we get told at the same time that I am the only known suitable donor. Because then I will laugh at you and tell you that the entire Australian army could not compel me to donate. That I will enjoy knowing you are dying in wretched agony. You are nothing to me now. Not a parent, not a friend, not even a person. You are a piece of shit bully who just used to live in the same house. And I will think of you as nothing more until either I or fate make you dead. After which, I will think of you no more.

Australia is the worst place in the world to live if you live with any kind of disability. The autistic live with a reversion disability, namely, the disability of living in a world deliberately designed to exclude them or disregard them. Queensland has the distinction of being the worst of the civilised states of Australia for a person with any kind of disability to live. If it were possible to make a land black and infertile, and to erase most of the people living therein, I would do so with no more contemplation than it takes me to buy milk.

And if you are a Cuntslander, and wish to bitch and moan about it to me, remember always: you have nobody but yourself or people acting on your behalf to blame for this.